Losing Time
by shellebelle
Summary: After Wiress comes home to District 3, she finds herself quite unable to keep track of things. Sequel to "Autobiography of the Mechanic as a Young Girl."
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: Well, here's the next part of Wiress' story. And I have a Very Special Person to thank. To my partner in crime, Stu, RP-partner extraordinaire and the Beetee to my Wiress, who actually got me to **read** The Hunger Games in the first place, you have gotten me back writing, and for that, I am eternally thankful. _

I lose time a lot these days.

"Dad, why aren't you eating?"

"Can't eat. There are cameras in the food."

So he goes out for a time, comes back into our clean house in the Victor Village with the stink of garbage on him and the smell of rats.

I retreat into the workroom I've set up for myself in the library, start tinkering again, and hide there till he's gone to sleep. I can't stand the smell of rats anymore.

* * *

><p>I dream of them now, wake up with bile in my throat.<p>

Dad looks at me now. He never used to see me before, but he sees me now. I know what he's seeing.

And it's not my face.

It's blood and hell and falling trees and knives and traps.

Not my face.

* * *

><p>The streets are bare but for a dusting of snow, winter in District 3, gray as any other season, with no plants and no trees. People know me on sight now, and so my clothing is nondescript, shapeless. My coat is a long, hooded grey cloak that covers me completely. I keep my head down. Walk in shadows.<p>

People frighten me. More to the point, their thoughts frighten me.

I never go downstairs now, only upstairs. Geiger's mother and siblings still live there, working, living. I bring things sometimes between Parcel Days. Geiger's mother chats with me, doesn't expect me to speak.

Sometimes, I bring the littler kids mechanical toys I've made. It makes me...feel a little more alive to do it. But I can't stay for long. The questions start forming in their minds, and I can't answer those questions. Not now.

Maybe not ever.

* * *

><p>And so I walk back home. Though sometimes I end up in the basement, before I remember.<p>

One day, Dad leaves.

"Can't stay here. I can't see your face anymore." _It's covered in too much blood._

And then he's just gone, with me watching as he leaves.

* * *

><p>I can't cry. I don't cry. I don't feel much of anything, really. Not anymore. I go back inside and put the finishing touches on another tiny mechanical creature. I'm using brass now. I can afford it, after all.<p>

I'm alone now, and I'm finding that I don't mind it much. I keep contemplating going to visit Beetee, but I'm hesitant. I worry that he won't want to see me. I'm living next door as promised, but things have been strange with me these past months.

I still don't quite know who I am anymore.

The nights are too quiet. I can hear my thoughts too well.

* * *

><p>And I think there might be rats. I don't sleep much.<p>

It's one of the coldest days in the year when I finally go over to Beetee's house. I'd been worried about something since Dad left me several days...or weeks...ago. I've lost time again, and I don't remember.

I leave the house without putting on my coat. I just don't think of it. Being warm doesn't matter as much as getting an answer to my question. I tramp through the snow, and stand on Beetee's porch, and knock nervously till the door opens.

He looks at me, bewildered. "Wiress?" Almost as if he can't believe I'm standing on his doorstep. Well, it's been...some time. Maybe I've changed.

I force out the questions before they get lost in my brain. "Am I still human? Do I still have a face?" My voice sounds desperate and it cracks on the last word.

Beetee sighs and reaches for my hand. "Come inside, Wiress. You'll catch your death."

Oddly enough, I didn't realize that it is snowing outside until Beetee is brushing it off of my clothing. "For heaven's sake, why didn't you put on a coat...?" he mutters.

"_Please." _I swallow and try to regain my calm. Rationality has already gone out of the window. My hands shake. "Please, just answer me."

He frowns and pushes his glasses up onto his face, and sighs again. "Of course you're still human..."

Something, like...a key, turns in my heart. There's relief, but now I _really_ feel cold, and start shivering.

Beetee looks at me in concern, and pushes my hair off of my forehead. "Oh _sparks-"_ He reached over for his coat—it is long, and hooded, and looks quite a bit like mine—and wraps it around me.

I don't know why he looks so worried, so I start babbling. "I don't have a face, do I? Dad said I did-didn't, maybe I don't..."

"Sssh, Wiress. You're feverish. Come on." He takes me by the shoulders, leading me through the house. He puts me on the sofa and I curl up on my side. As an afterthought, he unplugs and brings over a toaster, setting it on the small table in front of me. The side is shiny. "There, see. You have a face."

I lie there, staring at myself, blinking at my own reflection. And now I see that my cheeks are flushed

and my eyes are too, too bright.

Beetee comes back with a few white pills, which he gives to me with orange juice. He moves the toaster and sits down on the small table. "Who is taking care of you?"

I just shrug, retreat into myself, staring into the glass. Beetee leans down and tilts my chin up till I look at him.

"Dad left. Said I didn't have a face anymore." I close my eyes, but it's too _dark,_ and so I open them again.

He sighs again. "Well. He was definitely wrong about that." He pushes his hand through his slightly curly dark hair. "Stay here until you're better. You shouldn't be fending for yourself while you're ill." He pulls the quilt off of the back of the sofa, putting it around me. "Come on...I've got a guest bedroom. It's never been used so it should be clean..." Though he did sound rather uncertain about that.

I get up shakily, and he looks at me and puts one arm around me, guiding me up the stairs. I feel dazed, exhausted. His arm around me is keeping me upright. The room he brings me to is warm and quiet, with only the quiet _tick-tock_ of a clock in the corner as noise. I find the sound soothing.

"I can get you a shirt to sleep in," he says, leading me gently to sit down on the bed. "One moment."

Even though I haven't been here long, I can tell that Beetee didn't decorate this room. Or live in it. For one thing, there were no tools, and there were tools all over the house, tools and bits of wire and small electrical components.

But I'd like to think he was responsible for that clock. It's the only thing in here that seems to belong.

Beetee came back moments later with a nightshirt for me to wear. "It's...not much, but it's clean."

"Thank you." It's nice of him to let me stay. The house has been so quiet and empty. The nightshirt is soft. It's his too, but yes, it's clean.

I wonder if he does his own laundry.

Beetee puts his hand on my shoulder, startling me out of my thoughts. "Get into bed," he says gently. "I'll check in on you in a few minutes."

I nod and when he leaves me I change into the nightshirt and crawl into bed, pulling the covers up around my nose. The gentle sound of the clock on the wall begins to lull me away from here, and though I fight sleep as long as I may, eventually I'm pulled down into the inescapable hell of my dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

_I can't stop screaming. They're taking her away, they're taking her and my father is holding me, keeping me from running after her on my spindly little legs. She's saying things I'm not sure what she's saying because I feel as if I cannot hear her, can't understand her. I'm so little and I have no understanding and no power, and few words. _

_All I know is that she's going away, my mother is going away, and I can already feel the balance in our family skewing, shifting in ways I don't understand. I scream until I can't see her anymore, and then I'm falling and growing and I finally land underneath the boy from Four, and I can't breathe. _

_I'm completely unarmed. _

"Wiress? Wiress, wake up, it's just a dream!"

But all I can think is _I can't breathe_ and even though my eyes open and I see Beetee fumbling for the inhaler that I carry with me everywhere that I left on the side table, I'm panicking and I can't move. He pushes me to sit up and holds the inhaler to my mouth. My fingers are tingling and I strain to expel what's left of my breath and press the button as I try to inhale. Once, twice.

"So it wasn't just the Arena?" he asks when I've slumped back, breathing almost normally, dizzy from the medication.

"No," I say softly. "Had trouble since I was little. Could never...afford the medication before." I'm shocked at the sound of my own voice. I sound so flat. I remember. I used to _say_ things, not just speak them.

Beetee sighs. "Of course not," he says softly.

"It happens oftener since I came back." I wasn't entirely sure why.

"Probably from stress." He put his hands on his knees. "Rest. Let me find you some soup."

I make a sound and grab for his wrist. _"No!"_ I shake my head till I get dizzy again. "No, I'm not hungry, please don't go."

He puts his hand over mine where I'm holding his wrist so tight with my little thin fingers. "All right. I'm right here."

I collapse down on the pillows again. "Don't know what's wrong with me," I murmur tiredly. I'm not the same girl. Not the same girl at all.

"Don't worry," Beetee says. "You're going to be all right. It's just hard...right after."

He's not being entirely truthful again. But I'm not going to ask because I'm too tired to ask, too tired and too sick.

"You can stay here until you're feeling stronger," he continued. "I'll call a doctor for you. But either way, you shouldn't be alone."

I sigh gratefully. "Thank you. I...just..." I look over at the pendulum of the clock for a few moments.

When I come back to myself, Beetee is on the telephone downstairs, talking to the doctor.

It feels nice to have someone watching out for me.

I don't like the doctor touching me and it takes forever for the examination. But finally he pronounces that I have a lung infection and that I should rest and take the antibiotics. Of course, he tells Beetee when he thinks he's out of my earshot that I'm emotionally unstable and show signs of severe trauma and depression.

Apparently, I'm not to be trusted with information that I already know.

Beetee's reaction to this news is a terribly sarcastic, "Gee, I can't _think_ why that is," but he does thank the doctor and send him on his way. I'm sure the doctor is used to it. Sarcasm is one of the mainstays of survival in District Three.

That, and caffeine. Which Beetee brings me, in the form of hot chocolate. True, not as much caffeine as in coffee but it's a nice change.

"...and besides, you do need to sleep," he finishes.

I simply blink at him and drink my hot chocolate. "How old are you?"

He answers without thinking or asking why I'm asking. "Twenty-two."

I could have calculated that, I suppose, but he really just seems younger to me. More...my age. It's strange. He stretches out in the overstuffed chair by the bed I'm in, and we drink in silence for a time.

It isn't strained. It's just silence. There's nothing screaming in the air between us. Peaceful.

And I break it. "How long have I been..." My mind wants to go away, forget, but I strive, I strive to say _present_, stay _here._ "Home. In Three, how long have I been here?"

He doesn't seem to be surprised that I don't know. Maybe he loses time too.

"You've been home for a little over three months." Beetee pauses for a moment. "How _are_ you, Wiress?"

In all this time, no one has really asked that question. "I...Well." I can feel the confusion on my face—confusion, at such a simple question! "I...um. There are...lots of bits missing. I _know_ what happened, but...I don't..._remember." _It's frightening, like huge blocks of my life are completely gone, and not just from the Games. I put my mug down and wrap my arms around myself tightly.

He presses his lips together hand leans forward, his arms on his knees. "It sometimes happens, when you go through trauma. It's a way of letting yourself catch up to what has happened."

I look over at him. "I can't...I don't..._feel._ Inside. Everything's dead."

"I know. It...doesn't last."

I look over at him. "I...I don't mean to be a burden. I'm not...I don't..." My thoughts and my words are hopelessly entangled in my head and I can't seem to decipher them enough to speak them.

"No, it's all right. I'm your Mentor. You need someone to be there. And I know. So don't worry. And rest tonight."

I sigh heavily and lie back in bed, closing my eyes. He lays a hand on my brow, cool on my skin, and pats me gently.

"Rest, Wiress. I'll be here if you need me."

It's the most reassurance I've had in months.

I stay there for a week, then two. He doesn't talk very much, Beetee, and that's all right. Sometimes, he brings what he's working on into my room, sometimes he works with his datapad. Just making sure I'm not lonely. Or, rather, making sure I'm not alone. He might be thinking I'm going to terminate myself.

The thought crosses my mind occasionally. But maybe they won't do Parcel Day if I'm not around, so I should live out the year, at least.

When I'm finally well enough to go back to the big empty house five hundred yards away, he helps me put on my coat that he'd gone to get for me, and I chew on my lip, staring at my feet while I try to find words to say.

"You don't have to say anything," Beetee says. It's obvious on his face that he's trying to save me from speaking. It's become difficult for me to get out a complete thought.

I press my lips together and look up at him. It wasn't that I didn't want to go home. I did. I wanted to get home and set about doing things. All my tools were there, my projects and plans. But at the same time... "May I come...back?" I twisted my coat in my hands.

He shoved his glasses up onto his nose, then shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, of course. I've rather gotten used to having you around. I'd love to see what you're working on. If you'd care to show me."

I smile slightly, a moment, and it's gone. "Okay. I'll do that." And then I just leave. I can't say good-bye.

Not ever again.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: I'd just like to thank Solaryllis for beta-ing this chapter for me and catching all my errors in tenses. :D_

So now I start making my house into a sanctuary. Anything I don't like or that scares me, I get rid of. I find things that comfort me and put them around me.

I spend a lot of time in my room when I'm not working, dozing and wrapped in soft, warm things. And sometimes, I pack up my little mechanical things and bring them over to Beetee's house to work. It's nice to have company when I work. Even if we don't talk very much. Though really, we don't need to.

But there's an elephant in the room with us, while we're working and keeping each other company. We both know what it is and sometimes we skirt around it, but neither of us mentions it explicitly. Not for a while, anyway.

"Wiress," he says one day, and I know what's coming. I put down my tools on the table and put my hands in my lap. I wait for him to speak again. "Have you thought about the Victory Tour?"

"Only all of the time." I look around, slightly panicked, as if I want to get away. _Methods of escape: window, door. _Unfortunately, the threat I want to escape is not Beetee—the threat is in my own brain. I draw in a shaking breath. "What will it be like?"

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It's going to be awful," he says, not mincing words. "But it's meant to be awful for everyone involved. You will need to give a speech at every district. They'll start us off in Twelve, and go through each District in backwards order, Three being saved for last. The families of the Tributes will be up front when you are on the platform. You'll be able to see them." Beetee pauses, looking at the table, and rubs at a tiny electric burn on his forefinger.

_Thinking of his own Games. His own Tour. _I can see the memories on his face, how he flinches inwardly when there's something particularly painful that he's remembering.

And then he pushes the memories away. I can tell it's something he does often."It won't be easy. But I'll be with you every step of the way."

"I'm not scared." I want to escape, but I'm not scared. I don't feel much except sad. I'd just...rather not be _sadder._

This makes him frown, and he pulls his chair over towards me. "Wiress, I can't stress enough how important it is that you act and look precisely the way your stylists tell you to. Rayan and I will be there to make sure you are where you should be. You need to do everything _precisely _the way we tell you to."

I tilt my head, puzzled. He's _scared_—but why? "I promise, I'll be very good." I don't want him to be scared like that.

Beetee just looks at me through his ill-fitting glasses and then he huffs a breath of a laugh. "Well. I should know that you keep your promises," he says, patting my hand and moving back to his side of the workbench.

I give him a crooked smile that fades away and go back to working on my little machines. My brain goes away and all there is left is the machine, how it works, and what I need to do to make it work.

Machines are the only stable thing in my life.

Things fall into a pattern: I work at home, mostly, and at some point, I wander over to Beetee's and work there. Sometimes, there's a governmental broadcast and we both watch them. I make my notes at home, the same as I always have, but I'm not ready to show Beetee my notes yet. A simple pattern, and a comforting one. Knowing each day will be largely the same, with few surprises.

But of course...it has to end.

One day, a train comes in, with photographers and film crews and reporters, and, of course, Angelus and my prep team. And Rayan, thank goodness, who's going to keep us all organized and on task. Beetee is at my house when they all descend upon me. Always there. Always within reach. I'd love to tell him how grateful I am, but the words are trapped behind my teeth.

But still, I get the idea that he knows already.

It doesn't take long, that first day, for me to become overwhelmed. With my prep team buzzing around me like overexcited hummingbirds, posing for pictures and all the _questions_, my brain quickly goes into panic mode. Beetee can tell—I'm not sure how—and gently calls a halt to the first interview and makes me lie down in a quiet room.

I lie on my side, my body trembling, for some time. My head is spinning, it feels as if I'm going to fall off the bed if I let go of the coverlet. I hold myself quiet and tense, and then, somehow, I fall asleep.

Some time later, there's a gentle nudge to my shoulder. "Wiress, I'd like to talk to you, dear. If you'll wake." I don't want to wake. Everyone is poking at things in my brain and I don't want them to. "I can tell you're awake."

It's Angelus. He must be wincing at the mess I'm making of his outfit. It's such a pretty outfit, too, a pale green skirt and blouse in soft, warm material, warm tights and sweet little boots with a gear pattern worked into the soft grey leather. He is very good. He understands what I want, and even though I'm not Capitol material (or even _Victor_ material, really), he gives it to me. He makes me attractive, but not un-real. I sigh, and sit up. "Sorry about wrinkles..."

He laughs softly. "What wrinkles?"

I look down at myself, and though I've been sleeping in my clothes, there isn't a wrinkle in sight. I smile at him. "Oh." I smooth my hands over the fabric. "They're really lovely, Angelus." My smile fades. "How long have I been gone?" I ask. As if I've been away on a trip.

Angelus pats my hand. "Only a couple of hours, but you should think about coming out again. You were doing very well."

I sigh and look at my hands. "It must be be very boring for you here...District 3 isn't very interesting."

"It's like all the other Districts. They're very different from the Capitol, and I'm interested in anything different."

I'm discovering that people from the Capitol come in different types, and Angelus is a type of Capitol person that I like. He just keeps surprising me.

"Come on...your public is waiting. And so is Beetee. The poor boy is chewing off his fingernails."

I make a small, dismayed sound. The very last thing I want to do is worry Beetee, and so I leap up and brush myself off. "Is my hair a mess?"

Angelus chuckles. "Knew that would get you moving...come here, let me fix you, it's not that bad." He stands up and uses his long, slender fingers to smooth out my slightly tousled hair. "Now, you're presentable. Remember, head high, try and smile."

It's only after I'm out and back in an interview that I realize he never said what he wanted to talk to me about.

The days before the Tour are full of preparations. Rayan tells me what's expected of me, helps me to write the speech I'll be giving when I arrive in each District. He's advised me to write it out on little cards, because I lose my train of thought so much more often these days. A reception, a tour of the District, a dinner and party.

Two outfits per day. Twelve districts, plus the Capitol, that's twenty-six outfits, not counting what I sleep in. Angelus must have been very busy for the last few months.

I'm barely consulted as my luggage is loaded onto the train, and preparations go on around me. I have a box with my tools and my latest project, and I stand there just looking at the train and all the bustle. It seems such a lot of fuss and bother for just me.

"Wiress."

"I'm ready, Beetee." My voice is still flat and dull. My speeches aren't going to be very interesting.

"Do you need help setting up?"

I almost say 'no', but I find myself wanting to just be around him, working a little, and not thinking about the Tour for a moment or two. "Yes, please."

He takes the box from me wordlessly and we head onto the train. I double-step a little to keep up, he isn't _very_ tall, but he's still taller than me. "Where should I set up? My room?"

"Hmmm...how about the dining car? You'll want to watch out the window sometimes and it helps to have something for your hands to do. And you won't want to be shut up in your room the whole time."

"Okay." It sounds like a good idea, and I trust Beetee to know what's best. After all, I've promised him I will be very careful.

He heads into the dining car and places my box gently on a table. We work together to set up our workspace, pushing two tables together, stripping them of their tablecloths, setting up our tools and projects.

"What are you working on?"

"A super-thin, flexible television. The Capitol certainly does love their gadgetry."

I'm quiet for a moment, thinking. "May I...help, sometimes? I'm not good at electronics, but I'd love to learn." I miss school. I miss it horribly. I want to _learn._

He smiles shyly. "Of course...and I can teach you some things about electronics. It'll be good to teach."

I wonder if that's what he wanted to do once. Teach. He seems to be a very patient person and he explains things well.

But the Games change things for a lot of people.

I wonder where Beetee's family is.

As we pull out of the hazy smog of District 3, Beetee and I do not speak much. We work a little, and I spend long moments looking out of the window.

It takes quite some time for the smog to dissipate.


	4. Chapter 4

The train goes on, for a day and a night. Beetee and I watch some of the other Victory Tours, and we go over the speech I am to give at each stop on the Tour. I can barely get through it without losing my train of thought, so Rayan finds some little cards upon which I can write my speech. I can hold them in my hand and find my place when I lose it. I practice it in front of Rayan and by the time the train makes its first stop in District 12, I can _almost_ get through it without stopping.

Angelus and my prep team are helping me dress as the train stops. My dress is short, dark grey, and matches my shiny black patent boots. He's putting my hair into a long braid down my back. I'm murmuring snatches of my speech under my breath.

"Darlingheart, if you don't hold your mouth still, I'm going to get your lips all over your face," he says softly. I barely even notice that he's sent the rest of the prep team away and is doing my makeup himself, looking at my face in concern.

"Oh," I whisper. "Sorry."

"It's all right, darlingheart." He puts a little lip stain on me and blends it with his finger. "Just be yourself, Wiress. It's too difficult to be anyone else."

_But who am I? _I wonder silently, and then I look up at him. "I'm not sure I can."

"Look up," he murmurs, and he leans over me to apply eyeliner, smudging it gently. "I know this is not...it's not comfortable for you. Let me let you in on a secret. Most Victors hate this. You don't have to pretend to like it, really. Just give your speech. Be polite and gracious. Get through this. You'll be all right."

Polite and gracious. Yes, I can do that. I've killed their children, the least I can do is be polite and gracious. Kind. "All right," I say.

He pats my face with two lavender fingers. "Good girl," he says. "All done. Go and find your mentor."

District 12 is a strange place to me, though it's quite beautiful, in a way. The houses are wooden, mostly, covered with a thin layer of coal dust, it's true, but there's beauty there, too. Something about the distant forests. They remind me of the Games, a little. And there's snow on the ground, but it's not like Three. It's clean and white, only muddy on the roads.

The people are gathered. Some of them, I can tell, are merchants, and some are coal miners. The coal miners look wrung out and exhausted, mostly. The merchants look considerably less so, and cleaner.

The grieving families of the Tributes are seated up front. There's a definite air of anger underlying the crowd and just before I go out on the platform, I quail before that feeling, that _anger. _I look up at Beetee with wide eyes. He pats my shoulder gently. "I'll be right here."

I swallow hard, blink rapidly even though there are no tears, haven't been tears for months and months. But I nod and he tucks my hand into the crook of his arm, and leads me onto the podium.

The crowd of people looking at me are not openly hostile. But they're angry. It's a subtle current running beneath everyone's conscious minds. The grieving Tributes' families are up front. They're weary-looking, grubby, but not because they're slovenly. It's the coal dust that covers just about everything. _They try everything, but can't get rid of it entirely. They wake with a fresh layer of it on their skins. _They exude hopelessness, even the children.

_The other children. I hope they don't get Reaped too. _

They only have one Victor, Haymitch Abernathy. He's sitting in the crowd, drinking steadily, looking up at the podium with bloodshot, bleary eyes. He's not much younger than Beetee, not much older than I am. But his sadness is ancient, and I can feel it from where I stand, white-faced underneath my makeup, trembling.

I'm shaking like a leaf. And as I begin my speech, my voice trembles. But for that first speech, Beetee stands by me, with my hand on his arm, patting me when I lose track of where I am.

When the ceremony is over and I'm escorted offstage, I break from Beetee and hurry to my room, where I huddle in bed and pull the covers over my head. I lie there, just listening to my breathing in the dark.

When the knock comes a short time later to prepare me for the tour, I don't answer. I bury myself further into the bedcovers. I don't want to go anywhere. I want to bury myself in my house, in my workshop. I want my blowtorches and my motors and gears. I want my own bed.

I can tell who's knocking on my door by the knock alone. First Rayan, then Angelus, then Rayan again. I don't want to do this. I _really_ don't want to do this.

I can tell when Beetee knocks because after he knocks, he comes in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He sits carefully on the bed beside where I'm huddled beneath the covers. Gently, he uncovers my head. "You have to get up, Wiress. We can't be late. It's very important."

I squeeze my eyes shut and make a little sound. I know he's right.

He places his hand on my hair and leans over, whispering in my ear. "Wiress, please. I know. But you _have_ to do this."

The urgency in his voice worries me and I sit up, pushing strands of my hair out of my face. He looks terribly, _terribly _worried. I don't want him to look like that. Or feel like that. "Okay," I say softly.

Beetee sighs and stands, offers me his hand to help me up. "I'm sorry," he says.

I'm not sure what he's apologizing for. I stand up and keep a hold on his hand for a moment. "I'll be all right."

And then I leave the room, where Angelus and the prep team hurried to make me look right for the tour of the district with a long, warm grey coat, a black fur muff, and a matching hat. Rayan hurries us up, makes sure Beetee and I both look presentable, and then it's time for the tour.

It's easier once the tour starts. Curiosity kicks in—this is the first time I've been in a district besides my own. It's so very different. Yes, there's coal dust everywhere, and now I know why Angelus has dressed me in shades of grey and black. But there are also low wood houses, and trees, and grass. The snow on the ground is clean and white. They take me to the mouth of a coal mine. It's so _dark_, I can't imagine ever going down there voluntarily.

I'm holding Beetee's arm, and I tighten my grip a little. There's so _much_ dark.

The merchant's quarters are a bit cleaner, with bright, shiny storefronts. It's obvious, even with the well-tended storefronts, that the same families have run the same businesses for generations. The stoops, the flagstones, the door handles, all are shiny and well-worn.

My ears prick up at the sound of birds. There are birds everywhere, and I get distracted by following a black and white bird as he soars in the sky.

Beetee leans close and whispers, "That's a mockingjay." I've never seen one before. They didn't have them in the Arena.

Since I'm so entranced by the birds that no one can seem to get through to me, it's decided that the tour has been complete enough and that I should go and prepare myself for the reception and banquet tonight.

_I can't go out like this,_ I think. _Oh, what has Angelus done to me! _I can't stop staring at myself in the glass, and Rayan's hurrying me up, and I'm just shaking my head. Rayan sighs and rolls his eyes, turns to Beetee. "Help!"

I'm just staring at myself. I don't even look like the girl at her interview before the Games. Or after the Games. Or like me at all. It doesn't help that I haven't really looked at myself since coming home. But it's only been six months! How can I change that much in six months?

"Beetee," Rayan says, "tell her she looks lovely and keep us on schedule, please?"

"I can't. I can't go out like this," I murmur. There's...I have a _shape_ now. And this dress...is showing too much of it. And lots of my skin. And...

"Wiress," Beetee says softly. "You look wonderful. And proper. Come on. I'll walk with you." He takes my hand and nestles it in the crook of his arm, as he had done when I gave my speech.

I feel better, knowing he's with me and I forget that my arms are bare, as are my shoulders and a goodly bit of my chest. He's the only one I really trust.

If he's with me, I can do anything.

The party is long. I've never been out so late. We eat. The food is good, of course, much different than Three, but not...refined, like the Capitol. It's what was once called "country food", simple and good. I suspected that there would be several districts that would have food like that.

After the food, there is mingling, which I would have been good at, before the Games. But now, I speak rarely and quietly. I am pleasant, but that's all that can be said of me. And then there is music and dancing. The music is lovely, but I've never danced before in my life.

"C'mere darlin'." It's Haymitch, the Victor of District 12, and he is the drunkest person I've ever had the misfortune of meeting. "'Show you how it's done."

But I must be polite. "...very well," I say, and get up. He bows, a bit unsteadily, and takes my hand. His hand is huge, and mine just about disappears into it. He smells strongly of drink. I do hope he doesn't fall over, because he could hurt me.

"Seelook," he says. His voice slurs and creates new words, words smashed together. "Here, putcher hand here." He slaps my hand on his shoulder and puts his other arm firmly around my waist. "Don' worry, darlin', been doing this since afore you was born. Follow my lead."

Dancing turns out to be a lot more fun than I previously had thought. And faster, much faster. While Haymitch does stumble a bit at times, he's surprisingly graceful on his feet. By the time the dance is over, I'm laughing and breathless. He escorts me back to the table like a gentleman.

"Music gets slower now, darlin'. Get that Mentor of yours to dance with you. It'll be good for 'm." He slaps Beetee on the back, whose pale cheeks flush a bit.

"Thank you, Mr. Abernathy," I say politely. "That was fun." I'm surprised to find that it's the truth.

He snorts derisively. "It's Haymitch to you. See you around, darlin'. Watch your back." Haymitch walks off, no doubt to find more liquor.

Oddly enough, I don't find his parting words at all strange.

Though I'm not sure why.

Beetee gets up, sighing a little. "Come on then. I'm not a very good dancer, but Haymitch is right. The Capitol will love it. A matched set of Victors, as it were."

He is right about that, we are rather well-matched. Most District Threes look alike, after all.

By the end of the evening, I'm worn out and more than a little tipsy, though I don't really remember drinking anything.

But I do remember that wonderful soft, numb feeling of being drunk. After trying to keep me upright for the walk home, Angelus scoops me up into his arms while I giggle stupidly.

Beetee sighs, just before I drift off to sleep. "This," he murmurs, "is going to be a very long Tour..."

"They're all long," Angelus replies, and then I don't hear much else, because I'm asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

I wake next morning when they pull back my curtains to let the sunlight flood my compartment on the train. And then I roll over and pull the covers over my head, moaning.

There's an exasperated sigh. "I'm going to _kill_ Haymitch," Rayan grumbles.

"_That_ would take some doing," Beetee replies. "He was just trying to help her relax. Let her sleep."

Another sigh, and then the sunshades come back down and the door shuts softly, leaving me in quiet darkness. _Thank you, Beetee. _I sink back into sleep, but it isn't as restful as I'd hoped. I dream of running, running and never getting anywhere. When I wake, there's a sharp, screaming pain in my back, and Beetee is shaking me out of my nightmare.

My eyes are wide, but my speech is gone, and Beetee touches my face with a gentle hand. "Sssh, it's all right, it's over, wake up."

But somehow, I haven't really woken up yet, and I just stare at him till he hauls me out of bed and into the bathroom, where I throw up whatever is left in my stomach. I hadn't even felt nauseous.

Now he's washing my face with a cool cloth. "Wiress," he murmurs, "wake up." He peers into my eyes.  
>I'm trying. He sounds worried. Finally, I blink slowly at him. "Sorry," I whisper.<p>

He lets out a breath of relief. "You worried me there. Are you all..." Beetee stops himself, and changes his question, because of _course_ I'm not 'all right'. "Are you _here_?"

I have to think about that for a moment, but then I nod. "I'm sorry I went away."

"Stop apologizing," he says softly. "But you need to be present, Wiress. All right? I'll keep a closer eye on where the alcohol is."

I nod again. "I need my cards," I say faintly. "Are we...close?"

"A couple of hours away. I'll get you to Angelus now, and he'll take care of you. Then you can come sit with me and we can watch District 11 come closer."

I nod one more time, and Beetee brings me to Angelus, who shakes his head at me and puts cooling drops in my eyes to remove the redness. "You need to be very careful with your drinking, dear," he advises me. He makes sure I eat, little District 3 bread rolls with a light, sweet hot tea. It does a nice job of settling my stomach and waking me up more fully.

The prep team gathers around me and hurries to make me up. The dress, made of deep green silk, is beautiful and the shoes are good and sturdy. Angelus does my hair himself, putting it into a soft knot at the nape of my neck. "Be sure you put the hat on," he says, putting a wide brimmed straw hat into my hands. I look at it, puzzled. "You'll need it," he says. "The sun is hot, and you'll burn with your pale skin."

I nod at him, find my cards, and then go out to sit with Beetee. He gestures for me to sit by the window, and I do. "We're nearly there. District 11 is much more..._supervised_ than 12," he says. He pauses for a moment, and places his hand over mine. "_Watch, _Wiress."

Our eyes meet. I nod gravely, and turn back to the window. It's so different, again. Even different than District 12, it is sunny and bright and there are huge fields. People working, harvesting.

And then there are the towers, which are all manned with armed Peacekeepers with guns at the ready. The fences, tall, made of razor-sharp barbed wire. I can hear the hum of electricity, even with how fast the train is going. I look out, farther out. Fields as far I could see...and people working them, stooped over, cutting with long scythes, men, women, even children. They have to be children, they are so small. And even from my vantage point on the train, I can see how thin they all are, as thin as the District 12 people.

As we come closer, as I see more, the patterns start to emerge. Almost without really thinking about it, I begin to compare what I see here with what I saw in District 12, matching images in my head.

My speech goes better today than in the last District, but I still hide in my room for a little while when I'm done. My brain is working overtime, making connections. I don't have paper. I don't have a pen. My head is getting full, and is bound to get fuller. More full. I take a deep breath and hurry to Beetee's room, knocking nervously.

He opens the door, looking at me curiously, and I stand on my toes to whisper urgently in his ear.

He ponders for a moment, then says, "I'll see what I can do. It's almost time for the tour. Will you be all right?"

I nod, but don't speak, and go back to the passenger car to sit at the window, looking out, letting my thoughts run around in my head.

I lose time, and then it's time for the tour of the district and the banquet.

The tour is different here than in 12. There are Peacekeepers all along our route, guns at the ready, separating us from the people, for the most part. The people here are too tired to be angry, though some still are. But there are too many whip-marks on too many strong backs. Even on the children.

Despite how downtrodden the people are, there is also great kindness here, even to me, considering who I am and what I've done. They're the last people I'd expect kindness from, but they must see how fascinated I am by everything. So I let myself be vulnerable to them. It's the least I can do, isn't it?

And the Mayor of the district is charmed when I say _"flutterby"_ instead of "butterfly" because I'm entranced by the motion of the little fluttering insects as they fly over the fields. He asks me what my favorite fruit is and he takes me to the little low strawberry plants. I'm fascinated by them. The fruit is unusually warm, and incredibly juicy.

But I'm unused to the weather, the incredible warmth of the day. Everything is beautiful and bright...but so very bright, it hurts my eyes...and I'm grateful for the break between the tour of the district and dinner, grateful for Angelus keeping the prep compartment dim and quiet. My gown tonight is black, but in such a way as to make my pallid skin look more robust. It isn't as revealing as the gown from the night before.

That night, I come back tipsy again, though not as tipsy as the previous night, at least. I hang on Beetee's arm and slur nonsense at him, collapse into bed in my gown as Angelus sighs and helps Beetee pull the covers over me.

In the morning, no one wakes me, but there is pen and paper at my bedside table. I don't question how Beetee got it, but I immediately spend half an hour writing furiously in my coded notation, dumping out all of my thoughts of the previous day, and any other things I'd happened to think in the last forty-eight hours. It's a great relief, and the next time I see Beetee, I hug him hard and murmur, "Thank you."

He hesitates before closing his arms around me. "It's all right, Wiress."

This becomes my world as the tour goes on: going to bed tipsy and waking up slightly hungover, though by the time I give my speech, I'm mostly recovered. Days pass in a vaguely interesting blur. Information passes through my brain and onto the paper, a massive download every single day. My hands cramp from writing but it doesn't matter. If I have to remember all these things consciously, I'll never be able to behave correctly and I'm figuring out that behaving correctly is _important_.

I'm becoming more and more tired, even with the sleep I am getting, but it's more of a mental than physical exhaustion. Ever since Beetee told me to _watch_, it's been more difficult to block out data. I can't _not_ notice things now. I'm becoming more distracted, more fidgety. And yet, I remain numb emotionally. It's been so long since I've wept that I'm not certain I remember how.

I'm sitting after my latest evening party—in 8, where they make textiles—and slouching on the sofa in my gown of pink raw silk, shivering. I didn't drink as much tonight, but I'm so exhausted and the adrenaline has worn me down so that I can barely move.

"Wiress?" Beetee leans over and looks me in the face. "Wiress, are you holding on?"

I look up at him and nod wearily. One of my prep team, a girl with crystals embedded in her skin, comes up to us and offers to bring me to bed. I nod at her and she coaxes me up from the sofa and into my rooms, helping me dress for bed and removing my makeup. Even though she's not much older than I am, her manner reminds me of Mother.

When I'm in bed, I'm sorry that I didn't request that she send Beetee in to see me. I rather like having his face be the last face I see at night. But I close my eyes and sleep, because whatever happens, I must sleep. Slowly, my body relaxes itself, and slowly, my brain goes numb and blank.

And then I'm asleep, and the train is speeding beneath my head, carrying me to the next district.


	6. Chapter 6

When I awake, I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling while my brain seems to take longer to wake than my body does. By the time I'm fully awake, the prep team is coming in to rouse me. I don't speak for a while after I wake up. There's nothing to say, and besides, now my head is full of what I have to do—how to behave properly and politely. Rayan has always tried his best to make sure I do what I must—and he worries if I do not do what I should.

And I've been noticing things: Beetee's worried frown which was a little different from his _usual_ worried frown, it was an expression with fear behind it. Rayan's constant fretting over being on time sometimes took on a real edge of desperation. Angelus would gently prod me to ease off of certain behaviors that would not put me in the best light.

Everyone is nervous. Afraid for me and afraid for themselves. I do not understand why. Or so I tell myself.

Angelus has put me in a green dress again—green for District 7, mostly—with delicate tracery of green embroidery over the neckline and cuffs. It is summer in the District, but a verdant, cool summer. I can feel the edge of coolness on my skin even in the train compartment. Angelus puts my hair up, fastening my hair with pins with jeweled leaves on them.

I haven't looked out of the windows yet. I'm assuming that district 7 must look like either 11 or 12, the two truly "natural-type" districts, or maybe even District 10. In fact, last night was so tiring, I didn't mentally prepare myself at all.

But I have my cards, and I have Beetee, and for a few moments, as I stand out there on the platform and pause before giving my speech, I think it will be enough.

I am so, _so_ utterly wrong.

I step out on the platform, and for a few minutes, I'm as I am at every one of these things, and it doesn't feel any different. But then I look up from my cards and see the _trees _first. My eyes travel up and up as my voice trails off. They're immense, taller than anything, taller even then the tenement buildings in Three. They're tall and imposing, frighteningly so.

I feel so _small. _

Beetee is touching my arm, trying to get me to come back, but when I do, it isn't to the cards.

It's to the families, right in front of the podium. To the boy's, who I never met. To the girl's family. The girl.

I'd killed her at the Cornucopia and her name was Willow. Willow, who had an identical twin sister named Aspen.

Who was looking right at me. Our eyes met.

And. I remember. _Everything. _

_(All she'd wanted was to come home to the trees. And her sister. Her sister had cried and clung, but Willow had had to go anyway. All she'd wanted was to come home to the trees but she hadn't wanted to kill anyone.)_

I've stopped breathing, and my vision is swimming in red, and Beetee is now shaking my arm. I take a breath, but it hitches in my chest, tripping over my heart. I look down at the cards, but they're useless. I can't remember a thing of what I'm supposed to say, the words on the cards mean nothing. I'm utterly, hopelessly lost.

"I..." Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. My eyes ached and my body hurt and after months and months of being completely numb, the pain was unbearable. My throat doesn't work. "I...I'm sorry..." And then I'm lost, in tears and in the rushing of my blood in my ears. I can't think of anything else but the pain and the sorrow, and how horribly sorry I am. I hear the tearing of fabric, feel my own sharp nails over my skin, feel Beetee fumbling for my hands.

All the names I haven't thought about, all the things I've done for their Games, everything comes down on my head all at once. Beetee is taking my wrists so that I don't hurt myself anymore, and Angelus comes out to take me offstage and Rayan hurries forward, already murmuring words of apology for my behavior.

My legs give out. I'm shaking like a leaf. Beetee makes a small sound of distress and Angelus scoops me up into his arms and carries me into the train. I bury my face into his chest, and bunch up his shirt into my fists. He makes soft, hushing noises to me and carries me off somewhere dark.

"In my bag," Angelus murmurs to Beetee, "there's a syringe. Normally, I wouldn't, but..."

I hear him moving, hurrying, and there's a small sting in my arm. Coolness floods my veins and my hands unclench and my sobbing becomes quieter, though it doesn't stop. I feel that it won't ever stop, and I'll be crying forever because I've killed so many people and how do you live once you've accepted that? I'm on a sofa or something and I roll onto my side and wrap my arms around myself.

"Okay, Wiress...it's all right, you need to breathe now..." Beetee pushes my hair back from my face. "I know...I know, it's hard...when you..." He sighs.

"She just wanted to come home, we all just wanted to come _home_..." I can't. I can't wrap my head around it, that I've killed people. I've killed _children_, children just like me! I know each one, every face, and though I may not have been present when they died, thanks to the recap I know precisely who I've killed with my machines and with my hands.

"I know," he says quietly, "and she was your first. It will always be hard. I would worry more if it _wasn't_ hard for you."

I try to stop crying but when I do, a fresh wave of agony comes over me and I whimper and begin again. "Can't go back out there." I sound cowardly, and I hate it. But I can't, I just _can't._

"You have to, Wiress. You don't have a choice." I look up at him, and he pushes tears off of my cheeks. He whispers to me, "We're from the Districts...our lives are not our own."

Something in the sadness in his voice frightens me and I squeeze my eyes tight shut. I make a sound I've never made before, a sound full of pain, animal pain, and fear.

Beetee touches his forehead to mine and embraces me tightly. "Ssh, I know. I know..."

After a few moments, I sit up and take stock of myself. I've torn the dress, and the skin on my arms beneath it. Blood has trickled over it from the wounds I've made with my fingernails. I'm trembling and weak. Beetee makes a soft sound of dismay and begins to gently clean my wounds. "Angelus is getting you a new dress," he said gently, as if leading me towards an unpleasant death, "And then he'll get you ready for the District tour. You'll come back, and we'll work a bit, then we'll go to the banquet later..."

I whimper, "No," because it's all too much and I just want to lie down and die...

"Wiress," he said, keeping his voice gentle, "I know, I understand. But you must do this. I know you do not understand, but it's all part of being a Victor." He sighed sadly. "I know what you're going through. I ended up puking, in District Two of all places...but you must be strong, and keep carrying on, for as long as the Tour lasts."

There is a soft knocking at the door and Angelus comes in, a soft green dress with filmy long sleeves over his arm. "I could not find anything to cover your arms completely, so I made sure you could at least hide them a little."

I simply look at him, my eyes wide, feeling terrified and stricken. Frozen, in more ways than one. I know I should speak. "All right," I whisper, my voice hoarse and small.

Beetee stroked my hair briefly. "Good girl, Wiress," he murmured. "I'll let Angelus tend you and get you ready..."

I nod, feeling alone and powerless. When he leaves, Angelus helps me out of the dress I'm wearing, and dusts my body with powder before putting me in the clean dress. He helps me walk around and gives me a little soup, trying to get me to walk without wobbling. Then, he takes an elastic band and wraps it around my left wrist. "If you find yourself fading," he said gently, "snap the elastic. So you don't savage yourself again."

Experimentally, I snap the elastic. It hurts, but it helps. "Thank you," I whisper. I'm calm now, but not far away from breaking again. I feel as if I'm trembling just beneath my skin, and about as substantial as fiberglass filament.

Beetee does not leave my side during the tour of the district. The Mayor of the District is gentle with me as he shows me around. The trees make me dizzy. I don't speak much, but I manage to smile and be polite.

By the time I return to the train to dress for dinner, I'm sweating and trembling, and there is a bright red welt from where I've been snapping the rubber band against my flesh. Beetee is in his suit, and his face is grave when he looks at me. He brings me into the bathroom and presses a damp cloth to my face, patting gently so he doesn't spoil my makeup. Between himself and Angelus, they dress me for dinner.

I totter even wearing flat shoes, and when Beetee asks me practice questions, I find it difficult to finish my sentences, even with prompting. He advises me not to eat very much.

I eat and I drink just enough to keep the screaming away. The dinner passes without incident, and Beetee is able to get me back to the train in one piece. But that night, I scream myself awake in the middle of the night, and burst from my compartment, crying. Now that I can weep again, I have a difficult time stopping.

"Wiress?" Beetee is behind me. He has his hands out, as if to still a hysterical animal. Which I suppose that I am.

"You heard me." I sniffle and try to still the trembling of my mouth.

"The whole train heard you," he says gently.

I duck my head and clench my fists, but nothing is preventing me from falling apart. "I can't...stop. I don't know what to do."

He sighs softly and leads me into his room. It's dim and looks like his house, pleasantly cluttered and full of machinery. He holds open the covers on his bed and I slip inside. He lies down next to me, over the covers. I lean my head against his shoulder, sighing and he slips his hand into mine.

"I know what you're going through," he says softly. "I remember when it finally all came home to me, what I'd done. How it wasn't simply a game anymore, and how much I wished, when I realized, that I'd died at the Cornucopia, that I'd died swiftly and quietly before having to live with the horrible things I'd done. Would do. But then...I began to appreciate what I was now able to do. Invent things for people. Entertain myself on the Capitol's dime."

I have the feeling he wants to tell me he is doing something _else_ on the Capitol's dime (whatever a dime is, though I get the gist), but I knew it isn't the time to ask what that is. Thinking about that will help keep my mind occupied, at least. I wonder if he takes notes the way I do. I turn on my side, facing him. "Do you...does it still hurt?"

He looks at me. "Every day. But you somehow learn to live with it. But it never goes away. I wish I could say that it does." Beetee brushes my hair from my face. "You need to try and sleep."

"I can stay?"

"Yes...though you shouldn't make a habit out of it."

I nod, and lay my head near his shoulder, closing my eyes. I'm so exhausted that despite everything, it still doesn't take me long to fall asleep.


End file.
